Oceans He Had Never Seen
by love of pie
Summary: Dean is dying, his last couple of weeks flash before his eyes. AU Hunger Games/Supernatural. Dean/Castiel I suck at rating stuff...


Dean coughed, feeling something warm dribble down his chin. Reaching up, he looked at his hands in interest – staring at the blood that was leaking from his mouth. He knew this would happen, but he was still surprised by just how much blood was pumping out of his stomach and mouth. He shouldn't though. He should never be surprised.

"Does it hurt?" A quiet voice asked.

The voice brought up strange memories. A screen, a television screen. A boy – maybe a year or two older than him with dark short hair, and blue, blue eyes. So blue – like the ocean he had never seen.

"Stay with me," Dean asked, his throat clogging up with the simple sentence.

The boy did not reply, but nodded, his head tilted down as if to shield those blue eyes from him.

Dean remembered sitting on the train with Jo, that was it. Jo had been with him, her head defiantly high, with her blonde hair pulled back. He had never really talked to her much before the train ride. She seemed nice, though kind of reckless from what he knew. They had sat on the couch next to each other, watching the the other tributes being paraded across the stage after the reaping. District 1. That was where he lived, before all this happened. That was why his skin was pale, but also why he had been so talented with the short swords that he had been training with.

Dean hadn't thought anything of him and the redhead – Anna. He didn't want to think about any of it at the time.

Now his skin was being dyed the same color red as Anna's hair and so was his white hands, now wrapping themselves around Dean's chest. When had he fallen? Dean closed his eyes for a moment, reliving another moment.

It had been those interviews. He had been dressed up in a red-brown-toned suit, his hair glossed back into a simple style. Jo had been in a pretty dress of dark green, but the stylist had covered her muscular arms, saying they weren't flattering. Instead the sleeves made her look hot and flustered. He had felt a little bad about it, but he was also a little nervous. He had never been good at talking in front of crowds. That had been Sam's job, if it was ever needed. And he only spoke out if he was becoming frustrated with Sam's long soliloquies about nothing, and forced the point out faster. Now he didn't have Sam, he didn't have anyone to support him up on the stage. Thank god it was only a three minute interview.

Of course the blue-eyed boy had finished in the first two interviews. Dean had only listened a little, but he was surprised at just how gruff and non-cooperative to the questions the boy had been. He really hadn't spoken at all. But when had come back, walking past everyone in line, he had made full eye contact with Dean, and Dean felt himself shiver slightly. A little voice said in his head _that boy is going to be the one that kills you_. For some reason, it almost comforted him. Before he could think on it however, Jo was already walking back to him, winking at him and giving him a swift kiss on the cheek and then he was stage with Caesar Flickerman, his throat dry, his face hot.

Dean opened his eyes, trying to see the blue ones again, but his face was still turned down. Dean noticed his hands were shaking as they pathetically tried to stem the blood flow from his stomach. Dean reached over and grasped a hand, "It's okay," He said.

A hand touch. He remembered when they had first touched hands. The gong had just gone off, Dean knew he wanted the ax that was shining in the middle of the pile. He didn't even notice the short blade right next to it. He had been large enough that his mentors had recommended to just fight his way through the blood bath, use his brute strength. Jo – you run, they had said. Dean – you fight, get some kills in. Alright, he could do that. He had been reaching for the ax when a pale hand had bumped into his. He had looked up, startled and high on adrenaline, ready to swing the ax now firmly in his grip at the head at who ever had been stupid enough to run up right next to him. But it had been the District 1 boy, his lip already bleeding from a hit, his blue eyes narrowed, ready for any attack. But neither moved. Dean realized the small sword was in the other boys hand, his fingers wrapped so tightly on the hilt that there was no blood left in his fingertips. Neither moved for what seemed minutes, but really had been seconds. Then the boy reached down, grabbed a pack, turned and stabbed a smallish, but older girl in the throat. She was dead before she hit the ground. Dean was running before the boy could turn around.

Suddenly Dean felt hot pain. His hand shook as he raised it above his stomach, wanting and not wanting to press down on the wound.

Dean hadn't felt hot in a while. The arena they had been placed in was fucking freezing, with snow and ice. It had been brutal, but luckily his district – during the winter in the area he lived in, it had snowed. Jo and he had camped out for a few days together, trying the Careers strategy, but soon Jo just left. He hadn't seen her since except in the sky one night about two days ago. Too bad, he had really liked her. He had even felt a prickle at the corner of his eye. He didn't cry often. He really only cried for Sammy or with Sammy.

Sammy. _I'm sorry, Sam_. Dean whispered in his mind. He knew this would kill his brother, watching him die for the games. Especially at his hands. Sam would have liked him.

"Hey, I have a re-request," Dean coughed, his body concaving in on itself in pain.

"Yes?" Was the simple reply.

"When you win, and you go... on the tour, I want you... I want to visit my brother. Give him... give him this," Dean stuttered. He sat up a little, supported by the warm arm on his back. He lifted off the necklace his brother had given him. It should stay with the family.

"Dean!" Sammy had said, almost angrily at the calm cool of his brother at the prospect of dying in the games. He walked around the room, his long legs pacing back and forth, back and forth. There had been silence, and then something heavy landed in Dean's lap. It was the amulet that Sam had worn since he had been a kid. "Take it," he had said, hiding his face behind his long hair.

Dean had looked at it in surprised, picking it up. "No," He had finally said, feeling the water begin to leak from his eyes.

"I mean it," Sam had said. "Take it. For me."

Dean had gotten up, and had hugged his brother, his tears spilling over his lashes. "Thanks for not volunteering." Dean said into his brothers shirt.

"Yeah, well, someone ought to take care of Bobby," Sam said, shrugging as they let go. Dean knew that it was killing Sam that he couldn't take his brother's place.

Killing. So much killing. Dean had killed his fair share of game, such as squab and even the occasional deer. And he was no stranger to violence. He had experienced it a lot, either at home or at school. But killing another person... was surprisingly easy.

His first kill had been a boy from District 12. It had been too easy really. He had just been sitting there, shaking. All Dean had to do was quickly slice his neck open. He had walked away, wiping the blood from his hands and ax, calmly looking through the small pack of the boys. Nothing worth anything. He had tossed it aside quickly and continued his trek through the snow.

Right after that he had met up with the Careers though. It had been Anna, Alistair, Bela, Jake, Ruby and him. _Him._ Dean had been walking through the mountains, trying to find somewhere to camp. But he been stopped in his tracks to hear talking. Laughing, mostly from Alistair, Bella and Ruby. Jake and Anna were glaring into the fire. But he was away from the circle. He must have been on watch or something, but Dean was sure he had seen his dark coat before he had leapt into the bushes. He had stared at the spot where Dean had disappeared, and his blue eyes met with Dean's green ones, though Dean was sure he couldn't see him at this point.

After a minute he had turned, allowing for Dean to silently back-track. Why hadn't he called out to the others?

Dean opened his eyes again, feeling his fingers begin to fade. He couldn't see too well anymore either.

Dean remembered when Anna had died. He had been trapped in her grasped, a short sword in her hand, pressed up against his throat, a trickle of blood running down his chest. She was breathing deeply, as if unwilling to kill him, but he knew she was just a killing machine. He could feel her tense up, ready to draw her knife across his neck, when suddenly his own face was splattered with blood.

She fell down onto the white snow, her hair matching the blood that was flowing freely from her chest where another short sword had stuck. Dean looked up, dazed, not yet comprehending that he had almost died and that now she was dead. He was standing before Dean and over Anna's body. He was panting, as if he had run a mile just to save Dean. After a moment of shock, Dean unstuck himself from the tree, and walked briskly over to his smaller frame and wrapped him in his arms. He tipped his chin up so he could see his blue eyes and then kissed him deeply. The cannon had blown, and Dean broke away, grasping at the gloved hand and dragged him away from the clearing. Looking back, it was almost picturesque just how perfectly Anna had fallen with her red hair as a stark difference on the snow.

"Dean?" A voice, which seemed so far away said. Dean forced his eyes open.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Dean said again.

"I'm sorry," he had said before, in response to the flinch Dean had given at his soft touch on the cut in his shoulder. It was huge. Too huge to be good. Dean had tried to move his arm, but instead fell back gasping. Great, he was lame now too. A warm hand had pressed itself against his forehead.

"You're hot," He had muttered.

"Thanks, I know," Dean couldn't help grinning through the pain. But he had only gotten a glare back. After a moment, Dean said, "Hey, thanks for you know... everything."

"What do you mean by everything?" He had said in that annoying tone.

"You know, for ditching the Careers, patching me up, being here in general." Dean felt awkward all of a sudden.

He didn't reply, but instead leaned over Dean, pressing a hand with a piece of cotton into the wound. Dean flinched at first, but then shivered as his other hand had brushed across his bare chest.

"Are you cold?"

Dean felt flustered. "No."

The blue eyes had met his, inquisitive. But Dean was suddenly flushing as his hand had stopped to press down on his chest without even realizing it.

"We'd better get your shirt back on anyway," He had said, obviously thinking Dean was in a fit of chills. Of course, later that night he was. He couldn't sleep, he was so cold, even though he was wrapped in a sleeping back with both his own and his coat wrapped around his shoulders. He shivered quietly, trying not to allow him to hear. But a hand pressed itself onto his shoulder.

"Do you need my sleeping bag?" He had asked. Dean felt ashamed, but shook his head.

"You'd freeze," He said, guiltily wanted the extra sleeping bag.

There was a sound of unzipping and then his own bag unzipping. Dean had tried to roll over, but was struck back with a blast of pain from his shoulder. Instead he lay helplessly as his bag was unzipped and a back was pressed against his. He had zipped their sleeping bags together and was now allowing Dean to use his own body heat. Dean felt strangely comforted by the pressure, reminded of Sam when they had been little in their one bed room. Dean stopped his shivering and suddenly fell asleep.

Dean could feel a pressure on his back from an arm, and a large hand cradling his head and neck. He couldn't open his eyes anymore. And he wouldn't see those blue eyes for a last time.

They had been sitting by the fire, Dean resting on the boys shoulder, trying to ignore the growing pain in his shoulder that had been growing for the past two days. He had been talking, speaking about home, trying to keep the silence away, though Dean knew he would have preferred the silence. He leaned his head back, not really listening, but trying to focus on the flickering flames and the boys hands, which were spinning a stone in them. He didn't hear his name the first time, but when a hand gently tapped him he jerked up.

"Dean," He had said.

"Yeah?" He replied.

"You're in pain aren't you," He stated, rather than asked.

Dean paused, not wanting to ruin the moment with a complaint. But he sighed, "Yeah..."

"Let me look at it," He had said. But Dean didn't want him to. He wanted to just sit there. When Dean didn't move, he did instead, unsettling Dean from his position. Dean turned to face him, and their faces were so close Dean could hardly breathe. They sat like that for minutes, their eyes searching each other. Finally, out of frustration, as if he was interrupting Sammy with one of his speeches, Dean leaned just a little more forward and brushed his lips against the other boy's. He pulled away, looking for some sort of reaction. After first it looked as if there was confusion, then surprised comprehension and then...

His hand was wrapped suddenly in Dean's hair and his mouth was on his, their breathing thick. They kissed heavily for a couple of seconds and then broke apart again, staring at each other. Dean knew they were both slightly confused by what they were doing, but he didn't care.

They kissed again, him falling on top of Dean, their bodies pressing together, until Dean squirmed and cried out in pain from his shoulder. He wished he hadn't though. He didn't touch him again for the rest of the night.

Dean wished he could get one more kiss. But he was running out of... what was it called.

The night's after that though had been almost blissful, just waiting out the fever in his arm. One day, it was like he couldn't get enough of Dean, always touching him, always kissing his face and hands. That night, Dean had made him promise him something.

"Promise me," Dean had said, wincing as he sat up straighter. "Promise you'll be the one."

"No," He had replied, knowing exactly what he meant.

"I can't fight, not anymore with this arm," Dean said, trying to lift his arm, only to throw it back down. "I'm terrible at fighting with my left hand. I'm terrible at everything with my left hand."

"No." was the only reply he received.

He was glad that had been resolved.

When Jo's picture had shown in the sky, Dean had felt his arm squeezed gently.

Alistair lay dead, and Ruby bleeding out, his own ax in her neck.

A white fox had stolen his dead bird he had just managed to kill.

His fire wouldn't light.

A hit to the face, blood from his nose everywhere.

Another kiss.

Another kiss.

Another kiss.

Tears.

"Do it now," He had said, clutching his side with his good arm from the arrow that was piecing through his coat. Bela lay dead a few yards away, blood streaming from her neck.

"No," He was so stubborn.

"I can't go on, your last. I want you to win."

"No."

"I wouldn't be able to live with out you!" Dean had nearly yelled, only to quiet his voice when he winced in pain from the arrow lodged in his ribs.

"And what makes you think I could live with out you?" Was the reply he got.

Dean didn't have an answer. "I love you."

"I'm not doing it."

Dean felt the tears running down his face, desperation. "Please."

"No."

"_Please..."_

He couldn't remember what actually convinced him.

A knife was forced into his stomach, and he heard himself grunt in pain, and the gasp of horror from his beautiful lips.

Then all the memories were flooding back.

Dean lulled his head, trying to stay conscious, but it was getting so hard. He felt his hair suddenly being tugged at and something wet on his face. He forced his eyes open, squinting up at the screwed up face above him.

Shakily he reached up a hand, brushing the hair away from his forehead.

"Hey," He tried to sound soothing, but instead more blood leaked from his mouth, and he couldn't feel his body shake. "Hey," he tried again. "It's okay."

He nodded, trying to convince himself that it was okay. Dean rested his hand against his cheek, letting him lean slightly into it.

"Cas... look at me." Dean requested in a small voice. His green eyes were met with the vast blues of oceans he had never seen. He swam in them.

He let his hand drop, keeping his eyes open so he could always see those blue eyes. "I love you," he whispered.

"I do too," Castiel replied quietly.

* * *

**A/N: Hoh boy, I know this has been done before, but I just couldn't help adding to the soup of stories. If you find this confusing – good. If you were dying, do you think things would be all that clear? **

**And oh my god, did I make them OOC. I'm sorry. It's just hard not to in a situation like this. And I always feel like, if given the choice Dean would actually die for Castiel. It's just Castiel always manages to either: beat him to the bullet, or simply get killed by accident. **


End file.
